


A Series of Implausible Escapes

by TheWyldeWynd



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternative Ways of Avoiding a Kidnapping, Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkwardness, Background Fluff, Explicit Language, For Fun and Survival, Gen, Humor, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Taking Refuge in Audacity, The Deputy Does What She Wants, The Deputy Makes Questionable Life Choices, The Deputy is a Badass, Unconventional Tactics, Unconventional Weapons, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 00:46:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20898863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWyldeWynd/pseuds/TheWyldeWynd
Summary: One of these days, the Deputy's really going to have to figure out how to stop getting stalked, abducted, drugged, and bad-touched by the collection of unstable cult leaders (and their implausibly numerous followers) who have forced themselves into her undeserving life.But, until that day comes, she isnotgoing to go quietly.The Seeds want her kidnapped?  Well then, she's going to make themworkfor it.Let the games begin.Or - "How to Avoid Being Kidnapped and Subsequently Brainwashed by the Cult Jerks Who Won't Leave You Alone," by Deputy Robin Baird.





	A Series of Implausible Escapes

**Author's Note:**

> _Another instalment in my list of "Random Stuff that My Brain Thought of and Refused to Forget."_
> 
> _Let the silliness begin. :D_

It’s a truly breathtaking day.

The coming-up-on summer heat is just straddling the line of comfort, but the steady breeze and beautifully cool water’s pushed it over the line the right way. There’s big, fluffy white clouds overhead, throwing dancing patches of shadow all over the heartbreakingly majestic mountains and forest. The area’s _singing_ – birdsong and animals calls and the rustle of leaves and the steady thunder of the nearby waterfall. And, above it all, the Montana sky’s a crowning glory of perfectly, beautifully, impossibly _blue_.

Much like John Seed’s widely staring eyes.

Which are _also_ breathtaking.

For _several_ reasons.

Not all of which are good.

But maybe Robin’s getting ahead of herself.

#################

Everything starts because there’s a rumor going around Hope County that Deputy Robin Baird – Wrath, The Angel of Death, The Deputy, The Rook, The Wrathful Self-Destructive Unicorn of Revolution (_‘Thanks for that one, “friends”’_), and about a hundred other monikers – _might_ just be… a workaholic.

Chances are the rumor started all the way back before Cult Shenanigans™ started, back when the world made a kind of sense and guerilla warfare wasn’t just an “eh, shit happens” thing. Back when Robin’d just been _the rookie_ (no capitals) and Staci and Joey had given her shit over working all hours and picking up or covering extra shifts and doing it all with genuine cheer.

And, alright; maybe there’s a see- _**degree**_ of truth in those rumors.

Or several degrees.

Or more than sev- alright, _fine_! The rumor’s probably about… three-hundred and nineteen degrees true, what of it?!

Robin just likes to keep _busy_ and there’s _nothing_ wrong with that.

_Anyway._

The _point_ is that people seem to be _drastically_ overblowing the issue, and Robin’s not entirely certain that it’s fair.

Hell, it’s like people don’t even _remember_ the Testy Festy.

Honestly.

And so _what_ if it was two months ago, _Grace_? Two months or no two months, it doesn’t change the fact that Robin’d lived it the _hell_ up.

Granted she had done the most of the prep work for it.

_And_ she’d gone to retrieve Mary May’s death truck first thing the next morning.

And _then_ she’d gone to help Xander with a thing over in Henbane immediately after that…

The _point **being**_… Robin is _not_ a workaholic.

And even if she _was_ then she’d be a _functional_ one, _damn it_.

But just try telling any of that to her friends (or allies, or Sheriff, or Pastor Jerome and Mary May, or Eli, or Kim Rye, or Dutch, or Doc Lindsey, or Tammy, Wheaty, Skylar, Nadine, Tweak, the entire population of US Auto, or… anyway), who’ve apparently gotten it into their heads that she’s “overworked” and “overstressed” and “in danger of burning out” and “Robin _please_, you need to take care of yourself” and “you need to take a break before you go Fruit Loops” and “Robby you beat a Peggy to death with a live _wolverine_, and that is totally _badass_ and somehow in character but still feels like a warning sign, and do we _really_ need to bring up the _moose_ again” _**and**_ – 

_Anyway_.

All of Robin’s (unabducted) friends are listening to rumors and focusing on the wrong stuff. Worse, they’re being all weird and _concerned_ and _**sad**_ at her. 

And, _apparently_, all of this means that Robin needs a _vacation_.

Which is…

Well…

It’s not that she doesn’t get it. Burnout’s a real thing and it’s a killer – she is _not_ contesting that. Hell, she got plenty of talks from her grandfather when she was young; talks about the importance of personal time and self-care, and of how _doubly_ important those things are for a cop. _Hell_, some of her favorite memories are of those talks – talks held more often than not to a soundtrack of Queen and the Highwaymen, held over fishing poles and ice cold bottles of root/beer, peace and joy and Pawpaw’s roughened velvet voice drawling “Remember, Old Man, an overworked sheriff is a _sloppy_ sheriff, and if you _ever_ so much as _near_ being a sloppy sheriff then you will be shamed before your ancestors and call down the wrathful vengeance of generations of unstable lawfolk and peacekeepers stretching back to before Ireland was even a thing.” Because her grandfather was awesome and wise and one _hell_ of a sheriff, and that he always knew what he was talking about was _never_ something to be questioned.

So… yeah. 

She gets it.

And it’s not like she doesn’t _appreciate_ it – the unsolicited confirmation that her people… care. About her. And all that feelsy stuff.

So yeah.

She appreciates it.

A lot.

It’s just…

Well she’s just kind of got a lot on her to-do list these days, doesn’t she?

And it’s not like even the places they’ve taken back are all the way safe and secure and Peggy-free.

_And_ it’s not like the Seeds aren’t all _stalking_ her constantly, meaning that (even if she _did_ agree to take some time off from breaking their stuff) one of the culty bastards would _still_ probably show up to interfere; come popping right the hell from nowhere to assault her with more tragic backstories and crazy cult-talk and “what size manacles do you wear and, by the way, does this rag smell like chloroform to you” style “flirting.”

So… _yeah_. No matter how much she gets it and how much she appreciates it, in the end Robin respectfully declines her friends’ gracious suggestions of time-off. 

And then she respectfully describes her latest carnal activities with the mothers of every miserable so-and-so who attempts to contest that decision.

Well, except for Hurk, obviously; because she’s a lady and doesn’t want to lead Addie on. 

So Hurk she just flips off.

Respectfully.

It works pretty well, actually, and soon everyone’s shutting up and falling back on the sad looks (swallowing down and stewing in their negative emotions and concerns – as the Good Lord intended), and Robin’s able to get back to work and be harassed by only her _enemies_ again.

And then –

Well…

Ok, so it’s totally not her fault, because she’d gotten a lead on a Prepper stash but it’d turned out to be _on top_ of Raptor’s Peak, and everyone who knows her _knows_ that heights fuck with her head, and there’d already been crazy eagles dive-bombing her the whole way up and then the damn _Peggy patrol_ had swung by with their jacked-up helicopter and –

And…

And Robin… may have reacted.

_May_ being the operative word, because she’s going by hearsay for the event, she honestly doesn’t remember most of it.

Which is… admittedly cause for concern.

Even without the details that Jess supplied, which were… not _great_ sounding. Mental health and stability wise.

Which does _not_ let Jess off the hook for being a _massive_ tattletale, by the by.

But…

Yeah, ok, Robin has to admit (after a little get-together that threatened to become a full-blown intervention, backed up by some full-force sad-puppy eyes from _Virgil Minkler_ – which is _cheating_ and very possibly a violation of the Geneva Convention) that… maybe, _just maybe_… she could stand to take a day off.

But _just **one**_.

Lord knows if she takes more off then some lunatic will probably burn down the whole damn county.

And it’s entirely possible that said lunatic will be Robin herself…

Anyway.

So.

Vacation.

She didn’t ask for one, but apparently she’s getting one whether she wants it or not.

And _that_ is how Deputy Robin Baird finds herself up in the Whitetails, kicking back in a _very_ out of the way and isolated spot with her fishing pole, her cat, and a little self-care package that Addie and some of the others’d packed for her.

It’s… really nice, actually.

She doesn’t trust it.

At all.

At least… not at first.

In the end though…

Well…

The sun’s up overhead, dancing around the big, fluffy clouds, _just_ making things hot on the almost-summer day. It’s the kind of heat and brightness that’d probably be uncomfortable under most circumstances, but at the moment – with the clouds and the breeze and the cold lake water – it’s right enough for Goldilocks, the heat wrapping around Robin like a towel fresh from the dryer or a snuggle with a fluffy murderbaby, unraveling what feels like a lifetime of muscle tension and soothing her down to the core, despite her well-placed paranoia. The lake itself is definitely helping there – the steady lap of the waves and the light dancing over its surface working better than any tranquilizer ever could. Add on a little bout of fishing, the velvet thunderstorm of Peaches’ purring, and the total absence of anyone screaming at or attempting to murder or creeping on her and… well… 

Robin doesn’t want to trust it, but damn if she can’t just _feel_ herself turning into the human equivalent of a cat dozing in a laundry basket in the sunshine.

Really, all she’s missing is an old stereo playing some Queen or Johnny or Willie, and a bottle of Sayer’s Original root beer, and she’d almost be able to pretend she’s on one of her fishing jaunts with Pawpaw from all those years ago and –

Yeah.

It’s nice.

Nicer still when – the day getting hotter and Peaches (long since finished with her tithed fish) slipping off into the trees to chase rabbits or whatever – Robin gives in to temptation, strips down to her unmentionables, and dives into the _beautifully_ cold water.

Actually, check that.

It isn’t “nice.”

It’s damned _heavenly_.

She swims for a while, twisting and surging through the water, poking around and sometimes collecting the random detritus on the lakebed, and she damn well preens as the force of the water and the occasional handfuls of sand strip all the accumulate sweat and grime from her body and hair. Then, when she’s finally starting to feel the faintest pull of weariness, she comes all the way up, lays herself out on the shore, and just _basks_ in the sunlight.

_ ‘Alright, I give.’_ Stretching a little, fingers digging into the wet soil and legs splashing in the water, Robin feels her lips tug up into a sleepily contented smile. _‘At the risk of tempting fate, I have to admit… vacation was **not** a bad idea.’_

And that’s pretty much how the day plays out – Robin screwing around the isolated lake in her underwear, splitting her time between the water and the shore, swimming and fishing, skipping rocks and basking in the sun and peace. Peaches reappears occasionally, accepts her due offerings of fish with queenly grace, and then magnanimously permits her loyal vassal to deliver a bounty of skritches and snuggles before vanishing back into the woods again. Robin sees other wildlife too – ducks on the water, a few hares hopping through the brush (in the _opposite_ direction from where Peaches disappeared), a couple Caribou and an actual momma fox with two little cubs easing up to the far side of the lake for a drink – and not a _one_ of them tries to eat her, so she gets to sit quietly and just _watch_ them. She digs through her care-package, demolishes a few of the Sunrise apples and a bag of M&Ms, nearly chokes to death when she uncovers a little box full of individually wrapped sex toys and lube (“Don’t do anything _I_ wouldn’t do!” xoxo Adelaide), and washes down the blockage and horrified laughter with a mason jar of Jailhouse Gin.

Eventually, the sun reaching its peak and the day hitting its hottest, Robin lays herself right back out in the sun and – not able to keep the smile off her face – settles down to _rest_.

#################

It’s getting on in the afternoon when she finally rouses herself, stretching out of the partially coherent doze she’d been indulging in. A quick glance around proves that Peaches is off again, and after a little round of yawning and stretching Robin ends up standing up to her calves in the water, following the traveling light like a sunflower into one of the streams that branches off from the lake. The wind’s picked up a little, its gusts working with the quickly moving water to offset the sun’s rays and afternoon heat, all of which curls around the low song of nature (the rush of water and the steady thunder of the waterfall her stream leads to, the _for once_ peaceable sounds of the local wildlife, the faerie rhythms of wind playing through branches and leaves) like a warm hug.

It’s all _so_ good , so peaceful and relaxing, that Robin barely notices the little changes in how the water’s lapping against her legs.

At least until she hears the splash.

It’s small enough to not trigger her fight-or-flight instinct – registering as something harmless on a nearly subconscious level. So, instead of losing her shit (or, worse, her warm and fuzzy zen) and jumping to the offensive, Robin just turns her head slowly towards the sound.

Sure enough, there’s nothing of a threatening nature there.

There _is_, however, a big ole beautiful salmon, swimming around like it doesn’t have a care in the world.

For a moment all she can do is stare; watching the defused sunlight glint off the salmon’s scales as it darts around her legs. She’s caught in the moment – in the simple beauty of the thing and the sudden realization that she’s been just _standing_ there long enough for the fish to get acclimated to her presence and write her off as a potential threat.

And then… _The **Thought**_ occurs.

Still unmoving, Robin feels her eyes grow wide as they simultaneously watch the fish and visualize her List of Childhood Dreams (that Have Not Yet been Dashed).

And, in an instant, she knows what she must do.

Keeping the lower half of her body _perfectly_ still, Robin _slowly_ bends her torso down a bit, arms moving infinitesimally slow until…

There’s a loud splash, a surge of water, and (to her own admitted surprise) Robin finds herself holding a flailing salmon in her bare hands.

Staggering a little under the weight and flurrying of the slippery beast, Robin just _stares_ at her catch for a stunned moment.

Then, realization of her flawless victory kicking all the way in, she throws her head back and _cheers_ – bright laughter bubbling out from her lips as she jumps and twirls a little, childlike glee surging through her as she dances with the fish she just caught _by hand_ and _damn_ but it’s as satisfying as she’d always imagined, and when she catches the rustle in the treeline over her own sounds of joy Robin turns to share her victory with Peaches and –

Peaches looks weirdly like John Seed.

In fact…

Stunned into absolute silence and stillness, Deputy Robin Baird – The Deputy, The Angel of Death, _**Wrath**_ – finds herself staring directly into the equally stunned eyes of John Seed – The Baptist, The Herald of Holland, _**Bitch**_.

It probably goes without saying that all her good feelings and vibes just _vanish_.

It’s…

It feels like one of those moments where the whole world should be frozen – river rush slowing to a crawl and falling leaves hanging in midair and all that. But, the thing is, it’s _not_. The _world’s_ doing exactly what it was a minute ago, and at the same pace too; it’s just _Robin_ who’s frozen.

Well… Robin _and_ John, actually.

They’re just… standing there.

Staring at each other.

It’s –

It…

It just makes no _fucking **sense**_.

Robin can’t so much as twitch, can’t pull her eyes from his, _especially_ can’t get her brain to work – at least, can’t get it to do much more than squawk “What are _you_ doing in the _Whitetails_?!” on a loop (and in a suspiciously familiar English accent).

Because _**yeah**_, Robin hadn’t really been _joking_ about the Seeds stalking her and being likely to show up wherever she goes… but what the _actual fuck?_

And maybe her brain’s stuck on this one thing too much, but _seriously_ – running into _John_ Seed in the backend of the _Whitetails_ is about as expected and comprehensible as seeing an elementary school teacher in an adult toy store! And at least when she’d faced _that_ hell she’d seen Ms. Culpepper from a distance, giving her enough time to duck behind the ball gags before getting spotted herself – _and_ one of the employees had been nice enough to let her slip out through the backdoor too, allowing Robin to spend the rest of the evening/night trying to drink away the memory of her third grade social studies teacher examining the spreader bars display. _None_ of which is even _slightly_ an option in her _current_ hell, because John’s _right there_ and _staring at her_!

It’s just… it… there’s –

It doesn’t make _sense_.

It doesn’t make sense, it’s not how the world’s meant to be (the _Heralds_ stay in their _own_ regions, _Joseph’s_ the only one allowed to move about the county, _everyone knows this_), and what in the actual _fuck_ is _John_ “my skincare regimen could bankrupt a third-world country and don’t get me started on my wardrobe” Seed even _doing_ in the _**wilderness**_ to begin with?!

This madness isn’t in her job description, damn it, and Robin’s got enough cognitive function left to know that she doesn’t appreciate any of it.

The _one_ good thing to come out of this present hell is that _John_ appears to be just as lost as she is, given the way he’s standing just as still and staring just as wide eyed as he obviously tries to process the sight of her – alone and unarmed and standing in a river with a furiously flailing salmon in one hand while dressed only in her underwear and –

Oh.

Right.

That.

The thought clicks in her brain, making her eyes go _just_ a touch wider, and (like that’s some kind of signal) a little shudder runs through John’s skin before _he_ blinks and…

And his gaze gets _dragged **down**_.

In an almost out-of-body way, Robin finds herself suddenly and overwhelmingly glad that she’s wearing clean underwear.

And that it’s actually _her_ underwear – rather than the too-small sports-bras and bandage combos she occasionally resorts to, or one of the pairs of boxer-briefs or whatever that she’s scavenged from abandoned houses and drowned in bleach before appropriating.

_‘Well…’_ Robin decides, with a sort of empty desperation, staring at John as he stares at her underwear clad body. _‘Some days you just have to be grateful for the little things, I guess.’_

And it is in _that_ moment, of course, that _Jacob_ comes walking out of the forest.

Because of _course_ Jacob’s present for this too, why _wouldn’t_ he be?

There’s a new moment of stunned silence, born as Jacob takes one look at the scene before him and _freezes_ – the low rumble of words he was making (and which her brain apparently wasn’t ready and/or willing to process) trailing off in bewilderment.

The silence hangs, pathetic and awkward, much like the salmon that’s still clinging to life in Robin’s grasp.

And then, _finally_ – because apparently hell is empty and at least two of the arch-devils are here to royally fuck Robin over (_quite_ possibly literally, if the red-flushed _look_ John’s giving her body is any indication) – The Baptist’s brain suddenly and demonstrably starts rebooting.

Another, deeper, shudder runs through John, his tongue flicking compulsively over his lips and his blush deepening as he stares at her body for a moment longer.

Which… is a little gratifying, honestly.

And, because the whole day’s gone screaming into madness, Robin’s bewildered and traitorous mind immediately keys in on John’s _very_ appreciative stare and (extra traitorously) decides to reciprocate that complement by _finally_ noticing that John’s traded his usual lawyer-casual/rich-bitch chic apparel for some jeans and a t-shirt/flannel combo and holy _shit_ but outdoorsy’s a _good_ look for John and Robin may be blushing herself now and if –

John’s eyes fly back up to meet hers.

And sharpen.

_‘Oh.’_ The flush of heat in Robin’s skin and blood dies as quickly as it was born. _‘Shit.’_

John’s eyes are fully fixed on hers now, and there’s still a hell of a lot of lost confusion in that pretty face but it’s getting wallpapered over with _Purpose_ but quick, the hungry calculation of The Baptist stepping into the void of what-the-fuckery opened by the whole farcical situation.

_‘Not good, not good, not good –’_ Robin feels her eyes grow wider, her stunned slow heartbeat suddenly ratcheting up to rabbit-speed as she _feels_ crosshairs settling on her.

John’s moving, his posture straightening and his head tilting ever so slightly in a not at all slightly predatory manner.

_‘No –’_

And then his lips part and –

_‘Nope.’_

Instinct takes over and Robin feels her arm move, sees the gleam of sunlight off silver and red, and then –

_ **THLWAAP** _

Time slows.

Then it _stops_.

_Then_ it double-takes at the scene before it, swears in horrified disbelief, and starts back up again with a pointed sense of disavowal.

Which has the side-effect of sending John stumbling back a step or two from her (_‘Wait, when and how had he even gotten that close in the first place?’_), reeling in shock and pain and arms flailing as he tries to keep his balance, while Jacob starts up on the shore – leaping forward a step before stumbling to a bewildered halt, The Soldier back to just _staring_, while Robin – 

While Robin… stands there.

Staring at John.

Her left arm still crooked back at the end of her swing and the now _incensed_ salmon flailing indignantly in her grasp.

Once again, the supposedly isolated corner of the Whitetails falls into stunned silence.

Jacob, still up on the shore, is still staring at them – slack-jawed and frozen.

John, a few paces away from Robin and in the shallows, partially bent over – one hand pressed over his scarlet cheek as he _stares_ at her.

And Robin?

Robin’s brain _finally_ starts working – informing her that, _yes_, she absolutely _did_ just backhand one of her archnemeses with a live salmon.

_‘Huh.’_

A beat passes.

Robin blinks.

John’s mouth falls open.

The salmon flails indignantly.

And then, up on the shore above them… a strangled sound breaks free from Jacob Seed’s lips.

At which point several things happen.

First, John glances over his shoulder to gape at his brother in pure shock and betrayal. Second, Jacob’s eyes go uncharacteristically wide and boyish, and his fist _flies_ up to press over his mouth. And third… Robin Baird, standing before her enemies in naught but her underwear and wielding naught but the world’ most tenacious salmon, has a _revelation._

_‘I’m in a world where all this just happened,’_ the (rather fittingly still _moist_) Deputy muses as she watches John turn back towards her, his expression vibrant with disbelief, affrontery, and what looks a hell of a lot like _Wrath_. It _should_, by all rights be an absolutely _chilling_ look – particularly coming from a man with an overabundance of power and a penchant for creative torture. And yet... Robin just… feels _none_ of that. Because…

_‘Nothing matters.’_

A sense of nihilistic liberation washing her alongside that thought, Robin meets John’s gaze evenly.

She blinks.

And then she decides.

_‘Eh… what the hell.’_

And with that thought she whips the salmon around and _slaps_ it across the _other_ side of John’s face.

And _this_ time, Robin is able to _properly_ enjoy the sight of John Seed getting fishslapped.

And it. Is. _Breathtaking_.

Much like the _**Look**_ that John shoots her – full of absolute shock and disbelief – from where he’s sprawled on the muddy bank.

A new moment passes, and Robin takes the opportunity to _burn_ the image before her into her memory.

And then Jacob, still frozen up on dry land, audibly _chokes_.

Which triggers John – tearing a _gasp_ from the muddy diva, his whole face contorting as he stares up at her, bewildered and insulted and trying to pull himself together enough to get properly _pissed_.

And Robin…

Smiles.

Under the fixed gazes of Jacob and John Seed, Robin tosses the salmon over her shoulder (she’s pretty sure it manages to flip her off on its way back into the water), drops a neat little curtsy, then pops back up to flash them a grin brighter than the sun, and _chirps_.

“_Meep meep!_”

And then she turns and fucking _books_ it – sprinting like hell and _Sundancing_ it off the waterfall before either of the cult overlords can pull themselves together enough to try and murder her for her act of piscine heresy.

As she plummets towards the surging waters below (cursing whatever malevolent force of bastardry that exists out there, that keeps forcing her to throw herself from great heights every time she’s in the Whitetails the whole way down), Robin has _just_ enough time to register how John’s _shriek_ of primal _Wrath_ is actually pretty chilling if you don’t mind how high and squeaky it is, and that Jacob (of all people) has an absolutely _beautiful_ full-bellied hysterical laugh.

And then she’s plunging into the frigid waters and _swimming_ like crazy, because like _fuck_ is she dealing with _any_ of the aftermath of all _**that**_.

She is, after all, on vacation.

#################

The sense of nihilistic victory her adventure earned her _evaporates_ a little while later, just about the same time that she scrambles up on shore and finds herself face-to-face with an incredibly judgmental cougar.

Part of the sudden drop comes as – nearly naked and shivering in the evening chill, getting briefly snuggled and groomed by an increasingly exasperated Peaches – it really starts sinking in that John’s… probably not going to react in a positive manner to this little fiasco. And said reacting is bound to be _inconvenient_.

Mostly though she just gets really annoyed with the realization that the Seeds now have one of her favorite fishing poles, one of her better pairs of jeans and jackets, _and_ her care package.

And she’d _really_ wanted to take Addie’s presents for a test-run, too.

#################

The sun’s not quite setting when Deputy Robin Baird strolls into the Wolf’s Den – soaking wet, a long-suffering cougar by her side, and dressed solely in her underwear.

In a testament to their functional survival instincts (and general bastardry), not a one of the Whitetails says a word. Instead they just do a horrible job of pretending not to stare and fall over themselves clearing a path for her to get to Eli Palmer.

(No matter what anyone might say, the good bastards of the Whitetail Militia are not stupid. They know damn well when something is The Boss’s Problem.)

In a testament to _his_ own functional survival instinct, Eli takes one look at the still dripping and nearly naked Deputy, then takes a _second_ look at her _expression_… and immediately shrugs out of his jacket and offers it her way. “Right, no more vacations, I’ll speak to the others.”

Expression unchanged, Robin accepts the jacket and repentance with solemn dignity.

And then makes a bee-line for the showers, not even pausing to flip-off a catcalling Tammy on her way.

Also, she keeps the jacket for the rest of her stay.

It smells like gunpowder, sweat, and _vindication_.

**Author's Note:**

> _So you know those moments when you're going about your business, and all of a sudden your brain gives you the mental image of your Deputy standing in a river in her underwear and slapping John across the face with a fish and then jumping off a waterfall to escape his Wrath, and refuses to let the issue rest until you finally cave and write it about a year later? No, you don't? I'm the only one that happens to? Huh. Probably for the best, honestly. ^_~_
> 
> _Anyway!_
> 
> _So quick heads up - I currently have three major projects that I'm working on (one that I **desperately** hope to begin uploading before the end of October, one that I hope to upload over the course of November, and one that I **mean** to upload in time for Christmas) before I devote myself first-and-foremost to SWAC part 3. This work exists largely as a shorter, less plot heavy, fun way of (hopefully) working my way through Writer's Block (should it rear its head on the bigger projects), and as something I can turn to for a break if I feel the beginnings of burnout or some such. On the one hand, this does mean that I probably won't be updating this on a **super** regular (IE: weekly) basis; on the other hand... there's some stuff in here that I just **really** wanted to write, and I had a lot of fun with it and hope you will too. ^-^_
> 
> _(All of this is subject to change, depending on life and inspiration.)_
> 
> _Ahem. So, brief peak into my disordered and disturbed mind over... hope y'all enjoyed this, and see you next time! When and wherever that is. ^x~_ <3
> 
> _(Also, quick shout out/thank you/author-kudo to Shadowesor, whose comment over on "Don't Call Me Mike Bison" made me laugh hysterically and inspired Robin's off screen use of a wolverine as a bludgeoning weapon! XD)_


End file.
